


FiddAuthor Collection

by irlmaxxor



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irlmaxxor/pseuds/irlmaxxor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of FiddAuthor drabbles, maybe later including Fiddlestan if I'm inspired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stressed.

Tired and twitching hands dragged through long, greasy hair with increasing frustration as Fiddleford trained his eyes on the paper below him. He had to get full marks, he had to. It was an unreasonable target and of that he was painfully aware, but the jeering had started again and he was far too close to breaking point for his own comfort. There were only so many times he could hear the words “southern hick” before losing his mind.

He flinched as the door opened behind him, relaxing only when Ford’s reassuring hums drifted through the air and to his desk. He sighed, pulling his paper closer and shaking his head. No distractions, not tonight. But as Ford continued working around the apartment, singing quietly to himself and sorting the groceries he’d brought home, Fiddleford’s mind drifted further and further away from the task at hand and gravitated toward his partner behind him. 

Three torturous minutes later he swivelled around in his chair and huffed, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes.

“Think y’could be any louder over there, Stanford?” 

“Hm?” Ford paused, hopping off a stool and approaching Fiddleford with a worried glance. “Fidds, you feeling alright?” 

“Delightful,” Was the mumbled response, muttered more to the table than Stanford as he turned and started pouring over his essay again. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. Ford had stopped humming and rummaging around, and though Fiddleford felt a slight twang of guilt play in his gut he knew that this would do wonders for his concentration and--

And nothing, as he felt a very warm face press into his neck and kiss him gently. Fiddleford shuddered, trying to keep focus as Ford’s arms wrapped around his torso and played with the collar of his shirt.

“D-Do you mind?” Fiddleford knew the anger had already melted from his voice, but what little fight was left in him drained away at the muffled but happy chuckle that drifted up from his shoulder. 

“C’mon, you need some rest.”

“Coming from you?” He couldn’t help himself, relaxing back into Ford’s welcoming arms and laughing himself. “I’m insulted.”

“Touche.”

A sweet silence followed, broken only by the groan of protest from Ford as Fiddleford untangled himself and stood up, filing the papers in one of his folders and shrugging his shoulders.

“Thanks,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“It was those idiots again, wasn’t it?”

Fiddleford glanced down at his boyfriend, and the look in his eyes broke his heart. Stanford knew what it was like to be ridiculed, he often forgot that… 

“Nah, it was nothin’. Nothin’ you couldn’t fix, anyway, and that’s what’s important t’me.”


	2. Assholes.

There was little more frustrating that being angry in a library. At least in his flat, Fiddleford had the freedom of angry mumbles and weak kicks to the furniture. Here, he was slave to the silent, oppressive atmosphere that might normally have given him some comfort. 

Though apparently that didn’t stop them. He risked another glance up, glaring at the boys signalling to Ford (sitting beside him, totally oblivious with his head buried in a book bless his soul) making crude gestures and snickering amongst themselves. For the umpteenth time, Fiddleford considered standing up and striding over, telling them just where they can stick those fingers and-- … He sighed, slumping his shoulders and burying his head back in his book. He needed to finish this week's reading, he kept telling himself, he needed to concentrate. But they wouldn’t shut up. 

“Stanford,” He all but hissed through clenched teeth. “Can we-- Can we take these out? I’d rather read somewhere else.” 

Ford gave him a curious glance, Fiddleford loved the library, why did he…? 

“Faggots-!”

Oh. That was why. He glanced over to the library staff, wondering why they weren’t doing anything when it was obvious enough that everyone had heard that last remark. Poor Fiddleford was practically in pieces, face flush red with frustration and knuckles white as he gripped the book in his hands with as much strength as he could muster. Ford’s mind raced, knowing that walking out would mean they won, and as delightful as it would be to just leave them to their immature prattle the last thing he wanted was to encourage them. He’d just have to find another way to shut them up, or at least… 

Hm, that might work. 

Fiddleford had just about had enough, slamming his book on the desk (and flinching at the noise, not expecting it to be quite so forceful), and turned to Ford livid.

“I can’t stand it, let’s just get outta’ here anmmmf--”

Fiddleford wasn’t the only one that stopped dead in his tracks as Ford lent over and gently cupped his cheeks, capturing his lips in a deep kiss. He might’ve been mad if… If it wasn’t so good, relaxing and balling his fists in his shirt, tugging him closer. 

A disapproving murmur rippled through the library, and (typically) only now did the staff see fit to intervene.

It was with a wide smirk and a very red face that Fiddleford stumbled out of the library doors, books shoved under his armpit as he took Stanford’s hand and giggled. 

“What?” Ford laughed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away, bashful. “I thought you wanted me to shut them up…?”

“Oh you did, Stanford,” He mumbled, kissing his hand. “You did.”


End file.
